The Night We Met
by TheAmazingLT
Summary: He might have broken into her house, but she was the one that stole his heart that fateful night...
1. Lost Boy

**Disclaimer: First of all, Glee nor its characters belong to me, and I don't earn any money off this fanfic.**

**This is based off the last three chapters of my 'Samcedes Song One-Shots' collection. I can't promise regular updates since I'm going to start working in a whole foreign country soon. But I've had this in my mind for like weeks, and I needed to pen it down. I hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

'_I am a lost boy from Neverland_

_Usually hanging out with Peter Pan_

_And when we're bored we play in the woods_

_Always on the run from Captain Hook_

"_Run, run, lost boy" they say to me_

_Away from all of reality'_

_-_[Lost Boy- Ruth B]

* * *

'_Don't look suspicious'_

The words become a chant of sorts; repeating in his mind in the hopes of it becoming true once it reaches the ear of a benevolent Higher Power. His shoes patter against the smooth pavements of the affluent neighbourhood as he makes his way to a trail he has come to known very well. He needs not worry about his physical appearance upsetting the symmetric biases such displays wealth demands: with his sunshine coloured hair, porcelain tinted skin and eyes the envy of deep jade stones. What draws nervousness from him, however, is the manner in which he ought to carry himself as not to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

The affluent suburbs are nestled close to the woods; divulging the tale of disturbed nature forcing to yield to the whims of men. Acres of vast green pastures gave way to imported wood, grey paved streets, and manicured lawns upsetting the natural splendour of mother nature. The location draws hikers as flames serenade moths; the trails drawn into the woods and mountains give hikers the illusion of one-ness with the harshest mother of all- nature.

A woman jogs towards him: her bare hips seductively swaying as her chest pushes against the constraints of her sportsbra seeking his attention. A spark of desire flashes in her amber eyes unbothered by the heavy stone resting on her finger. He acknowledges the woman, a small impish grin glistening with boyish charm as the distance between them lessens. She returns the smile as she passes him. He can, however, feel her eyes on his back as he continues his jog, and for a minute he entertains the thought but disregards it just as quickly. His eyes fall on his target; it is a home build next to a hiking trail leading up to a steep hill in forest.

Of all the houses in the neighbourhood wishing to elicit jealousy from their neighbours, this home seems to be one of the most extravagant. It's a small modern wooden palace reeking of money as it rests underneath the gentle glow of a rising sun. It's left unprotected by fences or palisades, rather it favours being enwrapped by large trees.

He has been doing his own reconnaissance for the last two weeks gathering intelligence on the home's residents. There was only one permanent inhabitant; a teenaged girl. He has noticed a man and a woman, clearly not related to the girl enter the home in the mornings, and then leaving once the sun readies itself for its slumber. He deduced the two people were the maid and the chef judging by the attire they wore to work every weekday. At six a lanky man, dressed in security apparel, whose only intimidating feature was the mountains of acne on his cheeks and forehead, walks up the driveway to announce his presence to her before retracing his steps back to a wooden security booth tucked at the beginning of the property. Sam had come to the conclusion, that the guard had no actual purpose other than giving the homeowners a false sense of security. He spent his nights indulging in fast-food and junk whilst his eyes stayed glued to whatever movie is playing on his tablet. By ten o'clock the man is usually out like a light; snoring peacefully in his reclined seat.

The guard's laziness, as well as the lack of cameras on the property works in Sam's favour. The severely lacking security combined with the fact that the teenaged girl seemed to return home late on certain nights made the home the ideal target. He decides he's done enough surveying; it's time for him to take his leave. He resides on the other side of town, where manicured lawns are replaced by grey cracked pavements and trees abandoned in favour of rundown towers doing a terrible job at pretending to be the homes of the lower classes. He needs to start work in an hour; therefore he has no time to run the trail as he would usually do.

As he runs past the magnificent home, he finds the chubby black girl moving a fallen branch out of her white Audi's way. The car idles behind her, its door open awaiting and happy to welcome her back once she is done. She bears him no mind and wipes her hands clean on her navy coloured skirt. He must admit her school uniform does her body justice: the skirt clinging to her middle does its best to hide grown curves as it descends to her knees. Her raven strands are gathered in a high ponytail before rolling down her back in inked waves. She walks to her car with a grace that betrays no inhibition; for her riches allow no worries to dare weigh her down.

He berates himself for such improper thoughts regarding a teenager, as if his teen years weren't a mere three years ago. His mind can't help but question the absence of adults, though it's honestly none of his concern. He banishes the thoughts regarding the girl from his mind: as long as she sticks to her routine of not returning to her home until midnight on a Friday night, she was not his problem to deal with.

* * *

Worked sucked. It was tedious it always was when standing behind a warm grill at Burger King. On many occasions he would lose himself in fantasies where he did not live a life of mundanity. He would be the director of a life filled with abundance of money and happiness. He leaves behind his reality and its disappointments in that moment, but the imagination's nature is that of a hallucinogen :nothing more but a temporary state of blissful escape. The aftermath is not worth the high, for the reality of life reality hits him like an iceberg and gleefully watches him sink within the abyss of hopelessness. The pages of his life were already written- tattooed to white sheets of paper with no hope of erasure. He would remain chained to a life of minimum wage and petty crime. He hates his life, but he loves his family, so he endures it.

Money has always been tight even when Dwight- his sperm donor- was still alive and kicking. The man used to adore alcohol and women who weren't his wife, thus all of his money and attention went to those two loves. His reckless selfishness forced his wife's small salary the to keep the family adrift in an era of poverty, inequality and uncertainty. Her salary used to be enough but then the sperm donor died leaving behind his debt as inheritance. Sam was forced into the working by 14 to help supplement they loss of income. Usually he and his mother's salaries would be enough to keep the family afloat, but small emergencies like new medicine for Stacy, or sending Stevie to training camp would hit their small budget hard. Those occasions led Sam down illegal avenues in an attempt to provide for the struggling family of four.

As the sound of the shut door seeps through the air, Sam pulls his uniform shirt over his head leaving him in only a vest. The scent of cooked eggs greeted him first before his siblings could. A feminine voice, originating from the kitchen, calls his name.

"You okay with breakfast for dinner?" His sister shouts before she even sees him. Sam follows the voice as a navigator would the stars, finding his 14-year-old brother in front of the stove breaking eggs while his twelve-year-old sister sat by the table buttering toast.

"We only had eggs and tomatoes but Mrs. Wang gave us sausages when we went to buy bread from the her store." Stevie explained to his older brother. "Mom, says she'll borrow money from a friend tomorrow."

"I'll make a plan soon; don't worry guys." Sam said. Ultimately, they could not afford anymore debt, no matter how small it seemed to be. He knew what was needed of him and he would provide for his family best he could.

"I could find something-"

Sam shoots down the idea before it can attempt to fly out of his brother's mouth.

"Stevie, you have to focus on school. You don't have time for a job. I'll make a plan, okay."

Frustration dawns on the small features of his young face, but he choses not to utter his complaint aloud as he knew it would be a fight he would lose. Stevie barely passed middle school, thus far his high school career seemed to be reproducing the same results. He was doing terribly in school. No matter how gifted a track athlete he seemed to be, ultimately without academic success his dreams of escaping poverty through athletics would be nothing more than a vain mirage.

"When do you see Mike again for your next tutoring session?" Sam asked.

"He said he's coming by Thursday afternoon since he's been really busy with assignments," Stevie said with a sigh.

"Great, your schoolwork and your sessions with Mike are all you need to worry about." Sam stated before grabbing a piece of buttered toast from the plate in front of his sister. "What we eat isn't your problem. It's mine. Mom and I have never let you guys go to bed hungry, now have we?"

The question rhetorical therefore he expects no answer from his siblings.

"I'm gonna go take a shower, put my food in the microwave." He called over his shoulder as he leaves the kitchen.

* * *

Sam tightened his black shoelaces before getting to his feet. He then proceeds to gather supplies needed for the night before throwing them in his backpack. As he pulls his dark hoodie over his body a knock springs forth from the closed door followed by a soft voice seeking his attention.

"Sam?"

The man in question cringes as he pulls a face betraying his discontent. He had hoped his mother would be in the shower for quite some time gifting him the perfect opportunity to slip out of the apartment without having to face his mother's disappointed looks. Clearly luck was not on his side on this night. He kicks his backpack beneath Stevie's bed across from his; only then does he grant his mother permission to enter his shared bedroom.

A thin woman with hair the colour of sunshine enters, her eyes are the envy of the Mediterranean Sea. She is clearly weighed down by exhaustion which no sleep could ever cure. It's a type of fatigue which rests its roots in worry, rather than lack of sleep. Her inquisitive gaze rolls over his black attire. Her analysis of the man results in a small frown as she sits on the edge of his bed crossing her legs and resting her hands on her lap.

"Going somewhere?"

The question is unnecessary for they already know what would happen tonight. He decides to play along

"Just meeting up with some friends." He casually answers taking a seat across from her on the edge of Stevie's bed.

"Mmm, interesting, so where are you going?" she asks straightening her spine conveying she's listening with interest, in an attempt to humour her son.

"Here and there." He says cryptically whilst shrugging her shoulders.

Seeing that the conversation was going nowhere fast, she decided to stop pretending and confront him:

"Stacy told me you were 'going to make a plan' with regards to the empty cupboards." She said, disappointment clearly seasoning her words. "We all know what that means, Samuel."

Sam averts his eyes to his shoes unable to bare weight in her gaze. He heard a deep sigh.

"Sam, please don't do this. What will we do if you ever get caught?"

"I won't get caught." He says with a voice that rings with confidence.

Petty crime has always provided relief for the past five years; whenever money proved to be an hurdle it was there for him to turn to. The objects of the rich would the taunt him until he gave into necessity. The fact that they don't 'need' their jewellery and trinkets, and that they could afford more, was the propaganda machine reinforcing the _Robin Hood_-like lie. Thus far the law has yet to catch up to him;it pumps a faux air of arrogance into his ego.

"Sam, you don't know that!" The blonde woman snaps uncharacteristically forcing herself to take a deep breath hoping to return to a state of calm. Frustration bubbles in her veins, worry its accelerant. "Anything can happen and-and I just can't lose you, Sam. I can't lose you to this world."

Her voice wavers with apparent fear for his safety. It grows in the air stealing oxygen from his lungs and resting heavily on his chest. He runs a hand through golden strands.

"Mom, I'll be fine."

His voice lack certainty: it's a promise without weight.

Mary studies takes a few seconds to study the young man sitting before her. Her heart breaks. She sees a child forced to grow up to fast like a seed forced to grow in winter and left unequipped to the violence of the season, whilst she did little to protect him. He looks healthy to the world, but deep beneath the surface the roots of a healthy psyche failed to touch fertile ground.

"Sam, this is my responsibility- not yours. I am the parent, but I haven't been much of a mom to you. I'm so sorry I failed you. I'm so sorry I'm not a better mother and you feel the need to provide for us. I'm sorry that you were forced to take responsibility for me and your siblings."

His mother was right; his siblings weren't supposed to be his responsibility. The weight of having them lean on him, of stepping into a role of 'father' rather than brother, is bone shattering. All he thought about was them: _Were they eating enough? Were they healthy enough? Were they doing well in school?_ His life was a never-ending loop consumed with them. Though admirable it hindered him from his own growth. For the human being is a selfish creature by nature: it craves fulfilment and seeks it on street avenues better left untraveled. He's forced to self-medicate with liquor to fifull the selfish desire of temporary escape within him.

Sam also knows he cannot blame his mother, for he was the one who chose to step into that role. Dwight had shattered her self-esteem through the years and danced on the pieces when he was still alive therefor Sam feels obligated never to reveal to her the storm of anger, confusion, hurt and stress brewing within his veins. It would be nothing more than a conformation of lies the snake she had married, used to whisper in her ear as if it were fact. He knows he must make her see her importance and praise her accolades as a mother for only that would aid in the healing of her broken soul

"Mom, you're great. Just because we're struggling a bit now doesn't mean that you're a bad mom. You're always here to listen to us, to advise us, to laugh with us. We're the luckiest people in the world because we have you for a mom; we have a best friend, a supporter, a voice of reason. What I do have nothing to do with your parenting skills; it's my choice and I'll bear the responsibility for my choices. I want to do my part and I'm going to, regardless of how you feel about it because I want to do whatever I can to help out here."

She stares at him with broken, exhausted eyes which silently declares she has no will to fight him any further on the matter. He had made up his mind and nothing would change it.

"You're still going to go even if I tell you I can come up with a few dollars?"

Sam nods; knowing a few dollars would not be a enough. The woman sighs, getting to her feet. She leans over her sitting son pressing her palm to the side of his face forcing him to keep eye contact with her.

"Please be safe, Sam. I-I can't lose you. I can't have you taken away from me. You're my lifeline."

A small smile that dares not reach his eyes, roots itself on his face. He is unable to make promises to her so he choses to kiss her on the cheek before getting to his feet. The hidden backpack is pulled into the light from underneath Stevie's bed.

"I'll see you later mom."

With the sentence still hanging in the air he leaves.

* * *

_I am a lost boy from Neverland_

_Usually hanging out with Peter Pan_

_And when we're bored we play in the woods_

_Always on the run from Captain Hook_

"_Run, run, lost boy" they say to me_

_Away from all of reality_

-[Lost Boy- Ruth B]

* * *

**Oh, hello there. You're probably surprised to find me here since I haven't been updating my Glee stories in like decades. I know, I know, I suck. I'm sorry I just haven't been inspired when it comes to **_**Then and Now **_**since I didn't like where I went with that story; I added Matt into the mix romantically when I really shouldn't have and no I have no idea how to axe him…well without a literal axe. With regards to **_**Our Story**_**, my old laptop died so that basically means that I have write a story again from scratch on nothing but memory so that's also a small mountain I need to get over.**

**Anyway, anyhow, this story is based off the last three chapters of my 'Samcedes Song One-Shots'. I don't really know how many people will read this and care since technically you guys know how this would end. But if no one reads this, I'm still gonna update for my own sake just until I get this out of my system. If people actually care about this that'll be awesome, but like I said you already know how this ends sooooo….yeah I'm not sure how I'll keep you intrigued. **

**Also, I have Instagram, I don't post much but I do have it, so if ever you wanna dm me to find out about updates/ ask questions you can do so under the username: l**_**alatitus96. **_**I don't really log in on here for anything but updating and I can't really respond to guest reviewers when they leave me a question, but I can do so on social media…so yeah, there's that.**

**Also, I'm leaving for China in a few weeks to start working as an English teacher (those poor Chinese children will not know what hit 'em since I, myself, can barely' English ' properly ) so updates will be quite irregular. But I do have three chapters fully written and I have a synopsis of the first like 15 chapters, so hopefully updates will be at least twice a month (after I settle in). But by the time I leave I wanna at least have like five chapters or so posted. **

**Finally, I hope you liked this. **


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: The A-Team

Disclaimer: I don't own anything; therefore, I make zero $, €, £ or ¥ off this..Triger Warning: implied attempted suicide

* * *

Ripped gloves, raincoat

Tried to swim and stay afloat

Dry-house, wet clothes

-[Ed Sheeran- The A-Team]

* * *

Soft whimpers are carried down narrow hallways; it moves over thousand-dollar paintings and imported furniture decorating the empty shell of a house. There are no other inhabitants to hear her cries, so she allows them erupt from her chest boldly, as she is their only witness. Brown eyes drown in the endless depth of tears damming beneath her eyelids; small arms are wrapped around a trembling body as if they were the only things keeping her ligaments from ripping and her body from falling apart. She's in pain. It is a type of pain no medicine can attempt to heal. It's infused into one's bone tissue, tearing cells apart within one's organs. It fills one's lungs with its smoke making breathing impossible.

Today was one of those days when loneliness decided to taunt her. Ordinarily, it would be nothing more but a whisper in the back of her mind, however today it decided it was tired of being ignored.. She was invisible. No one knew of her and no one cared. She was merely existing. She was nothing put a chess piece suffering under the whims of its master.

Her parents only cared for her when they controlled her; so she allowed them to map out her existence. She already knew what her GPA would be, what her SAT scores will look like. She knew what university she would get into- Yale, and she knew what she would study- International Relations and Affairs. She would become a high-paying bureaucratjust like her parents where. They were currently residing in Turkey as diplomats. She consented to their wishes because she wanted to make them proud. For Mercedes Jones knew that pride constituted as love in their family, and like any child Mercedes wanted love.

That, however, did not mean that the weight of their expectation and the lack of support from her parents, did not dare crush her ever so often. On many occasions when life handed her small simple disappointments such as a B on a test, it would steal the breath from her lungs as she knew that something so simple could abolish any hope of her life plan becoming reality. Such small things, that would one day prove insignificant, called to anxiety as sirens call to the ocean. There were numerous times where she would try to outrun the worry, but like a person fleeing from darkness it was an impossible feat. There was no escaping the mundanity and loneliness her life had become.

The irony of her life is not lost on her: for a person who was never planned, a mistake since conception, every detail of her existence was planned. Iregardless, she seeks to prove her worth to them, she tries to prove to them that she was not a mistake by being the perfect daughter. She is a pawn, a slave to her masters' whims so they could accept her.

Because at the core of it, all Mercedes Jones has ever wanted, was to be noticed. She just prays to God that they would notice her. That they would love her.

Her mind fails to recollect memories of ever living with them. All she remembers are au-pairs and nannies; paid to give her the love and attention they never could. But as with any job, it was a temporary conditional love which would result in a revolving door of names and faces until she could take no more. She had begged them to consider the possibility of her living on her own; unsurprisingly it did not take much persuasion. The solitary confinement that was once buried within the recess of her soul, materialized into the physical world that day.

Mercedes Jones was alone.

* * *

The first-floor bathroom grants him access to the three-story tower of ornate woods and imported materials. The whole home is pitch black, a void of life signifying light, just as he had hoped. With a blue flashlight in hand as his guide and a balaclava covering every inch of his face bar his eyes and lips, he starts his expedition of the home in search of the treasure hiding within in.

After plundering an study of a few loose dollars in a drawer and expensive alcohol and loose trinkets, he makes his way upstairs. He moves quickly and quietly, even though he is confident the security guard is not only fast asleep but also to far to hear any movement, he opts to be careful. He soon finds a room he presumes to be the master bedroom. He opens drawers to find pieces of jewellery and forgotten bank notes. He finds sunglasses and purses, which cost more than his mother's second-hand car, and tosses them into his backpack.

Self-satisfied that there was no longer anything of value, which could possibly fit into his backpack, he leaves the room in search of more treasures in the other rooms. As he moves adrenaline pumps through his veins at the danger and thrill. It makes him cocky. It makes him reckless. If he were not deafened by the warmth in his ears, and the orchestra his heart was conducting within chest, he would have heard soft whimpers and audible sniffles.

He pushes a half-open door and what it reveals roots him to his spot. The tap pumping adrenaline through his sinews closes, leaving him shaken.

It's the black girl that was not supposed to be here!

"Shit."

The word slips out of his mouth before he can help it.

The blue florescent light from the flashlight shines like a spotlight on her figure seated in the middle of a queen-sized bed. Wide dark brown eyes stare up at him through wet eyelashes, and even with poor light he can see that they are bloodshot. He also notices unadulterated fear swimming with their depts. In her one of statuesque hands rest a bottle of clear alcoholic liquid. Unopened pilll boxes litter the space around her.

Realizations dawn on him. It sobers him to not only the situation he had been caught in, but also hers. Too many emotions bubble inside him; fear, disappointment, pity, are only the top of the iceberg with which has collided.

But still he cannot find the words to speak, as he stands bolted to the floor which has somehow changed into snow beneath him. All they do is stare at each other: her with earth coloured orbs that tells a tale of terror, and he with eyes the colour of a meadow filled with a bouquet of emotions.

She is the first to thaw; curling her knees to her chest as she tries putting as much distance between her and him, as the pillows and wall behind her would allow. Violent scenes paint themselves in her mind; some torturous, other depicting images of a quick death. Irregardless of the manner in which, she would die, she accepts her approaching death with as much dignity as a scantily dressed, sobbing teenager can.

She finally finds her voice, excavating it from beneath earthy lump in her throat: "9513, that's the-the pin to-to my father's safe. I ha-have fo-four hun-hun-hundred dollars in my purse." She stutters out.

He ignores the implications of those words. He's morally unable to continue his original task. Rather he shifts on his feet, causing once stilled blood to rush to his limbs. The sudden movement results in her lifting the bottle of liquid in the air threateningly with a trembling, heavy hand.

"I'm going to switch the light on." He says slowly. "May I?"

Her gaze flies between him and the light switch next to him, confusion clearing burning in its liquid depths. Nevertheless, she nods slowly not knowing how else to respond to the man standing at the entrance to her room.

The sudden flood of sharp light assaults her eyes, leaving her cringing. She can now see him in all his glory: his tall lean form draped in black cotton from head to toe. Eyes the colour of jade, and pale lips betray that he's Caucasian.

"Are you okay?"

His voice sounds foreign to his own ears: gravelly from disuse and unsure. Nevertheless, he sounds sincere. His eyes fall on unopened boxes of muscle relaxants, headache pills and medications he has no idea how she got.

She does the unexpected. She bursts out in laughter. The sound tastes frantic, and unnatural to his ears. It's deprived of all humour; it is bordering on unhinged. Tears stream down chestnut coloured hills, descending to her jaw, neck, chest until it disappears beneath the material of her silk pyjama shirt. Those tears are laced with pain, more lethal than cyanide as they drown him in their misery.

It's unnerving watching a person so unhinged from the outside.

"Can I call somebody for you?"

The question prompts her to look at him, and for the first time he sees the torture in her gaze. It's familiar, for her eyes are the same he sees when he looks at the mirror at times. It steals the oxygen from his lungs, leaving him silently gasping for air, as his heart turns to stone in his chest- heavy.

"There's no one to call. I have no one."

In hindsight she'd look back and reprimand herself for making her the perfect victim (one that won't be missed.). She does not understand why she tells him this, but she guesses it's her honest nature.

Now he feels compelled to stay and talk her off the ledge she was currently on. He does not understand the reason behind he's compulsion fully but he puts it down to innocent broken orbs that reflect those of a younger him. There was still redemption, exclusive to youth, hidden in them.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

She should be afraid, and she definitely is terrified of the masked stranger in her home, but the pity in his eyes douses her with embarrassment which surpasses her fear by a millilitre. She's embarrassed that she contemplated taking her own life, but it's a thought that has crossed her mind a few times in the past weeks. She wants to rid herself of the discomfort tattooed to her skin, she wants to escape its clutches.

"Don't do this to yourself." He says, the look in his gaze is gentle.

She starts weeping from the depths of her soul. The sound breaks his heart; he is human and not only does he empathise with her, he knows and understands the type of pain she's in.

"You don't understand." She whispers as her gaze falls on her pyjama shorts.

"How about you make me understand? I really want to understand."

She looks at his soft eyes, and though she's afraid of him, she wants to tell him. She has wanted someone to listen, and here he stood before her seeking to listen to what she has to say. She finally has the opportunity to be heard.

"No cares. I barely have family: my parents are on the other side of the world. I only know a few aunts from my mom's side, but they don't really care for me. I don't know my dad's family because they're too beneath him to even talk about." She says with her eyes still rooted downwards "I'm alone."

He bites his lip, racking his brain for ways to respond to her, but she then continues her thoughts.

"I bought these a few weeks ago, you know, but I was too coward too try it then. I think I'm too coward now." She looks at her pyjama sorts, feeling embarrassment course through her for being caught in this situation.

"Well, I'm glad you haven't taken them. Don't do it. Don't take them. What you feel on this moment is not worth your life. You're what, 16?"

"17." she corrects automatically

"You're 17, you still have so much ahead of you. There's so much beauty still in this word waiting for you to discover. There's somebody in this world who would love you, who would miss you before they've even gotten the chance to get to know you. There are still so many first waiting on you. "

She looks up from her lap into his soldering worried eyes. She sees in them comfort. She wishes to wrap her arms around him and intoxicate herself in his comfort, but he's a stranger, a dangerous one at that judging by his disregard for the law. So, she sits rooted to her spot.

"Things change, people change, this isn't all there is to your life, okay?"

She takes a deep breath as his words wash over her. She allows them to comfort her. She unscrews the tap from the alcohol before taking a massive sip. She regrets the decision, but she has no choice but to swallow it down as it burns her airways, causing her to dry heave as her lungs burn for air. He watched with amusement as she wipes her mouth clean.

"That tastes terrible- why would people willingly drink that?"

He gives a small smile.

"It makes them feel better. It makes me feel better, but I wouldn't recommend self-medication. It leads to more problems than anything else."

She smiles at him sadly.

"You're broken too?"

"We all are. But we have to remind ourselves that our lives are worth living."

She nods playing nervously with her fingers as an awkward silence engulfs them. He decides to take his leave and he tells her so. He feels that he has done his moral obligation for the night, so it is time for him to leave. Before he can retrace his steps her voice stops him.

"Will-will you come back?"

She recognizes the desperation in her voice, and nor she does she fully understand why she wants this stranger, this dangerous stranger in her home yet again. But he gives her what her soul craves- attention irregardless of the danger.

His only response is a small sad smile. With a blink of an eye he's gone from her room. She hears heavy footsteps downstairs but they soon grow faint before disappearing completely. She's too afraid to dare venture through her home to see if he's really gone so she wobblily gets to her knees and locks her door.

She does not sleep that night, but for some reason her soul feels lighter.

* * *

And they say

She's in the Class A Team

She's stuck in her daydream

Been this way since eighteen

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking wasting

-[A Team- Ed Sheeran]

* * *

AN: So, chapter 2 is done and dusted . I know it was quite morbid, I feel like the older I become, more the melodrama follows. IDK. Maybe because real life isn't a fairy-tale, and I try to make my fics as authentic as I possibly can, so I try to incorporate heavier themes into them. Like, I said, IDK. This probably sucks. Sorry. But I think I'm doing this more for myself than anybody else. I just need to stop thinking about this story, so hopefully penning it down will help me do so


End file.
